The Hidden Lead
by I'm Nova
Summary: When Anderson harasses a kitten at a crime scene, Sherlock can't help himself. He brings her home. In secret, lest anyone complain. The romance will be eventual, sorry everyone. Very late gift fic for the amazing missmuffin221 P.S. Number of chapters is unchanged because I removed a 'missing a month' note, but there's a new chapter for you!
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. So, first of all my deepest apologies – this story was supposed to come last month, for the amazing missmuffin221's birthday. Life was – well, weird, and I could barely remember which month was most of the time. So here her gift fic comes, way too late. Or at least the first part of her gift, because the story started growing, so – at least a few chapters to look forward to! Hope it'll bring you some joy anyway, Bienchen!_

The Hidden Lead

Sherlock Holmes would deny being a big softie even under duress. He had an image to maintain. High-functioning sociopath consulting detective, whose only joy was a good locked room murder, preferably committed by a serial killer. Never mind that in modern medical terms, his self-diagnosis amounted to sheer balderdash. Nobody ever went looking anyway. He so loved to goad Donovan and Anderson, ensuring their slander would reach as far as possible. It might be a bit mean of him, but it was, after all, a safety measure – look what happened when Moriarty, too clever by far, figured out that there were a handful of people whom Sherlock cared for. Still, it was a difficult image to maintain. Sometimes more than others.

Honestly, the sleuth had no idea why Lestrade had even called him. The case of the girl killed in a park near her house was obvious, honestly. The so-called 'best-friend' who had been crushing on her boyfriend. How the police didn't realise, Sherlock had no idea. He refused to believe he'd been called in not because the DI had no idea how to proceed – honestly, in a week or two even the deaf and blind could have solved this, so Graham should have, too – but because John had texted Lestrade begging for anything to distract his dangerously bored flatmate.

Sherlock was on all fours examining the surrounding area, just to be extra certain, when he came nose to nose with someone. A tiny grey tabby kitten with ochre eyes and a surprisingly loud voice, which startled him for a second. It had demands, and it had them now. Next thing he saw, was a shoe coming dangerously close to both of them, so – out of sheer instinct – he jumped up, scooping the kitten up with him.

"Damn, why didn't you let me kick that? I have enough nuisances on my crime scene, I don't need more!" Anderson whined.

"I don't trust your aim," the sleuth snapped back, "and don't worry, I'll make sure you're the only dumb creature here." If instead of scaring the kitten away, he instinctively hid it in one of the deep pockets of his Belstaff, and absently started petting it with one hand, so as to change its insistent meows to purrs, well, that just happened. Besides, it was obvious that their victim usually fed this little stray – it was basically a witness! And indeed, when he came near the murderer, from the depth of his pocket came a hiss that he had to cover with a cough. The kitten didn't appreciate having the giver of treats eliminated!

He solved the case quickly, and then it was time to wonder about his passenger. He could just set it down anywhere, of course, or if he wanted to be conscientious, bring it to the closest animal shelter. But the kitten had settled so contentedly, and he'd heard somewhere that purrs promoted healing – not just in cats, but in their human companions, too – and with all the scrapes they got into, surely some non-addictive (okay, that might be questionable, he still hadn't stopped petting the little one) healing boost could only be good.

He wasn't sure that John or Mrs. Hudson would agree, though. Nowhere in their contract was there a mention of pets, and he knew all too well that both would object to keeping any pet. Not because of the damage from a lively little one playing and scratching (it couldn't be worse than bullets in their walls) nor for hygienic reasons (he kept body parts in the fridge and once grew mould in the bathroom), but because, like Mycroft years ago, they feared having to take care of the new pet. Obviously, the only option was to smuggle it in and – whenever it was discovered (he didn't expect he could hide it indefinitely, they might not be geniuses but they weren't Anderson) – show the evidence that he could definitely take care of it on his own.

Next errands on his schedule: figure out the kitten's sex, name it, and procure the basics. Bowls, a litter tray, sand, food, a collar – he'd chip the little one, of course, but it might take him a bit to get around to a vet appointment, with their hectic lives. After all, the kitty looked healthy, so there was no immediate emergency – with a collar, in case it escaped, at least it'd be obviously owned. Oh, and at least a toy, of course. Okay, more probably two or four…or a dozen. But if he got everything now, what would he gift the kitten when he wanted to spoil…

Oh, fuck it. Using it for the kitten irked him. And yes, people were around and whipping a kitten out of one's pocket and staring at their intimate parts, even for a second, was likely to raise some eyebrows. But since when had he cared about anyone else's opinion anyway?

So, that's exactly what he did – and the kitten turned out to be a lady. Female names, female names…What would fit her? "Lead?" he called, hesitant. Okay, Lead might not be especially feminine, but his brain had latched on to 'evidence', and from that, her colour had done the rest. If she didn't mind, it was nobody else's business.

The loud meow he received was enough to seal that. "Now be quiet again, Lead, and you might get to choose your own food." He was going shopping. Lead had him tied around her little paw already, didn't she? He sent a quick text to John, asking if they needed anything, because he'd be buying some materials for a new experiment.

The incredulous reply he received was annoying but not unexpected, and with even more excuses to brave the place, the detective walked into a Pets at Home first. Priorities were priorities, after all…and he was immediately assailed by the number of choices. That was why he hated shopping. Every brand tried to appeal to the consumer with mostly baseless claims, and while investigating the data behind all that would be awfully time-consuming and dull, ignoring them all made choices simple chance, and he _hated_ chance. It was illogical. Thankfully he had the most expert consultant with him – he invited Lead to peek out of his pocket, and followed her directions. Her nose was as good an indication as any about which food had the least percentage of extraneous chemicals in it, surely.

Sherlock went into a normal supermarket afterwards despite Lead's thankfully now soft protests that they were all set, thank you very much, and she'd like to get home or anyway out of the fucking pocket. But, again, no matter what the kitten said, it was a necessity. For one, after what he'd gone through he wanted John's appreciation for what he'd subjected himself to – and his blogger understood him well enough surely to reward him in some way. For another, he needed to buy a lot of extra bags to hide the ones from the other shop. Otherwise all his careful plans would be ruined the moment he set foot in the flat.

Somehow, he managed not to have a meltdown - and to remember the labels (or at least the images on them) of most things they used, so he didn't have to text John wondering which type of milk they used and what the fuck the difference was from every other one, among other things. He would have sworn that he deleted such trivial details – after all, his flatmate usually took care of boring things like 'stocking the pantry'. But his obsession with John meant that he'd inadvertently stored many more images than was reasonable of him in ordinary situations like putting the shopping away.

John welcomed him with a raised eyebrow – which really was unwarranted, because he knew of the sleuth's plans, and doubting that he would do it was insulting. Just because of that one time during Moriarty's game, it didn't mean that Sherlock would never do anything of the sort when he explicitly said he would. Saying he would, now that was another question altogether.

He abandoned the one supermarket bag at John's feet and beelined for his room, mumbling about setting up his experiment. If Lead mewled right now, he was busted. Once inside, he turned on the radio and finally, let the kitten out of the bag…err, the pocket. She dashed under his bed first, unsurprisingly, while he busied himself with creating not one but two cat corners, both well out of sight of anyone just half-opening the door to check if he was inside. One had a cot and two bowls (food and water, bless semi-ensuite bathrooms for allowing him to sneak behind John's back), the other the litter. He wouldn't have liked to eat in his bathroom either after all.  
Finally, he took out the one toy he bought – the equivalent of a short fishing rod with a feather dangling from it – lay on the bed, and let it dangle over the side. Sure enough, after a few seconds there was a grey blur, and if the feather had been authentic it – and its owner – would have been torn to shreds.

Sherlock giggled – which, naturally, made him think of John. No, no, he couldn't share these giggles yet, no matter how adorable she was. He needed to prove himself first. Damn, he'd never thought that keeping a secret would be this hard. He could hide clues and plans and other life-and-death matters well enough, but give him one tiny kitten's antics, and he was itching to share every purr and swipe and blink. It was completely illogical. Despite that, he couldn't subdue the urge entirely. There was nothing for it. He would need a confidante.

Molly was the obvious choice. Cat owner herself, and – Sherlock had thought, before falling prey to Lead's spell – completely obsessed with felines, she could offer useful suggestions – from 'how to cat-proof a room' to the name of the best vet in London. Simply texting her wouldn't work, though – she wouldn't believe him without proof, afraid he was mocking her hobby. Well, that was simply remedied. The detective snapped a photo of his new friend. And then another. And then – he hadn't told Lead to get on the bed, but he hadn't told her not to either, technically, and her being distracted from her toy by his shoelaces was the endearing kind of idiotic, like John arguing with the chip and pin machine.

Almost as if summoned by his own thoughts, John knocked on his door. "Sherlock? Is it all fine? Need a hand in there?"

"Of course! What would be wrong?" he snapped back.

"You never close your door," his blogger replied, still respecting it, even if his frown could clearly be felt through the wood. "And unless we are just back from a long case, you aren't much one for random naps, either."

"I'm just setting up my experiment!" the detective yelled through the door.

"In your bedroom?" John asked.

"Would you really prefer everything in the kitchen?" Sherlock retorted.

"Just don't make it unusable as a bedroom, you know," his flatmate shot back, before padding away.

Hmmm….maybe he would claim that it _was_ and try to get himself invited into John's bedroom? No, no, stop dreaming. John had few boundaries, but he was way too fond of them. And he. Wasn't. Gay. Besides, he would have to destroy the sofa too before his blogger deemed that an acceptable plan – and by then, Sherlock would be subjected to hours of lecturing. It wasn't worth the trouble. He needed some more data about his flatmate's sexuality (because despite his declarations that lip-licking was…distracting) before he'd be able to formulate a plan.

Now, texting Molly. Even if he'd be subjected to a million photos of Toby in exchange, he needed her support. … _What_ had she texted back? There wasn't a single word in her message. Just a long string of emoticons (apparently she didn't have a Mycroft to train that childishness out of her), half of which he had no idea existed. Cat head with hearts for eyes? Did this mean Toby was in love with Lead? They hadn't even met yet! Why couldn't Molly be logical about cats? ( _Hypocrite_ , Mycroft whispered in his mind palace.)


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: nothing mine. A. N. Thanks to the kind guest for reviewing and sending cat emoji, it was much appreciated. Hope you all like the new chapter!_

Sherlock thought he was fully qualified for his plan to go without a hitch. He had a pup when he was a child, and it was brilliant. Besides, despite being smart in his own right, John was – bless him – notoriously unobservant. How hard could sneaking in a tiny kitten be?

It turned out that openly having a dog, in a garden, whom you could train to 'stay' and 'come' and 'fetch' or any other number of tricks, was vastly different from having a formerly stray kitten, in a flat, who would go after anything she found interesting and frankly didn't give a damn what you were blabbering at her.

His plan to keep the new 'experiment' confined to his room had to be completely scrapped on the very first day. He deserved it, to be fair, for building it on vague memories of an aunt's Persian that painted cats as mini-Mycrofts, lazy creatures that only wanted to sleep in the sunniest spot and occasionally be petted at their own leisure. That cat must have been as old as auntie Briar (fine, that was an exaggeration, but they both seemed ancient), and was as grumpy as her except for apparently random moments. That was not nearly enough data to go on properly, but as no lives were in the balance, Sherlock had got sloppy in his research, acting on impulse and – dare he admit it even to himself? – _feelings_. No wonder the result was a mess. A brilliant mess, but still.

He tried to slip out of his room and close the door behind him, after a few hours of playing with Lead. In a few minutes, John would come grumbling about dinner and the case being finished, so there was no excuse to skip a meal…and honestly, no matter how adorable she was or how much fun he found himself having despite the distinct lack of body parts in the room, Sherlock found the lack of John disturbingly annoying.

Tried being the keyword. She was so tiny that he didn't even notice she had followed him. How hadn't he? He might have to renounce his career if he missed such things. Perhaps because she'd been a stray, though, being quiet most of the time seemed to come naturally to her. Quiet didn't mean secretive, though.

Thank God John was in the kitchen already, stirring a risotto, from the smell of it, because he couldn't have missed her otherwise. Heck, Sherlock almost jumped out of his skin when she leapt a good foot in the air. The fly she was hunting down buzzed away, unperturbed.

John may not have seen her, but he noticed the detective's reaction. Despite how unobservant the man could be about almost anything, he seemed to have eyes on the back of his head where Sherlock was concerned. "Sherlock? Everything okay?"

"Of course!" His answer had been too quick. Would John notice that? He entered the kitchen and, this time, was very careful when closing the door behind himself. No sneaky kitten would get in.

John dropped everything, turning to him. "No, seriously, what's wrong?"

The detective pouted. "What makes you think anything is wrong?" As much as he hated repetition, it was a good way to distract the 'enemy' – and give himself more time to come up with a viable excuse. He would have to look into the possibility of purring being detrimental to the brain. He'd never had problems coming up with lies before.

"You. Closed. The door. You never do. Sometimes I think you're part cat!" the doctor replied, with a lopsided grin.

"That makes absolutely no sense," Sherlock retorted. It wasn't a hint that his friend had already deduced everything, was it? No, it would be out of character for the former soldier. Either face things or sweep them under the rug, never to be mentioned. Dropping hints, and enjoying his discomfort, while he questioned if he was in trouble, and if yes, how much….that was more something that Moriarty would do.

"That's what mum used to say, though, when Harry couldn't be bothered with shutting doors. That obviously she must have a tail, and was afraid it'd get caught in the door if she closed it behind her. It might be scientifically impossible, but the teasing finally had Harry close the damn doors." He shook his head fondly at the memory.

The detective just nodded, hoping that his relief wasn't too obvious. There was some logic in that – even if his own mummy had never seemed bothered by every door being wide open. Like she used to say, "Makes it easier to follow him when he rushes after an idea." His hope that John would lose track of his suspects and let his mind wander down memory lane was immediately dashed, though.

"It still is out of character for you, so – what's out there that would upset me? Have you started growing mould somewhere? Raided my closet for samples to test different acids on? I promise I'll not flip out," the doctor said.

It was his chance to come clean – but John was already biased, expecting the news to be bad. When he introduced Lead to his flatmate, he wanted to maximise the chances of his friend loving her. Today, Sherlock could expect a lecture on all the troubles she would bring, even if John kept his promise of not getting too angry. "Brilliant deduction," he replied, "but you still missed the point. It's not something that you won't like." At least he dearly hoped so. Eventually.

"A surprise? It's not my birthday or anything. But okay, I'll let you have your way." As if he ever didn't. John shrugged, and turned to the risotto, sampling it. "Dinner will be ready in five. Angelo gave me the recipe."

Which meant that even Sherlock would get seconds. And apparently, he wasn't the only one interested in the food. A scratch on the door almost startled him again. Instead, he was careful to drag a few chairs around while setting the table. That got him a weak glare, but no further questioning. Odd, because Lead had her own bowl…in his room. The door of which he'd closed. Oops.

"My experiment!" he blurted out. "I've…forgotten to set some parameters. I'll be back in a minute." The detective was out – the door firmly closed behind him – before his friend could even think of objecting.

Sherlock really thought that scooping up the previously docile kitten and bringing her back into his room would be a quick affair. But Lead wasn't feeling cooperative, and the sitting room offered a surprising amount of hiding spots for someone who was both tiny and nimble. In the end, the detective opted simply to leave his bedroom's door ajar, before John started suspecting him again. If she was hungry, she had better head to her own bowl. He didn't think she'd appreciate the risotto anyway – there was no meat in it.

To avoid her following him again, and outing herself to John, he made a point of standing a second by the kitchen door and hissing, before opening it. Yes, he was feeling ridiculous. But also she would hopefully understand that she was unwelcome.

Thank God John hadn't heard him, or at least he'd decided that his flatmate was in a completely barmy state and shouldn't be prodded too much about his odd – even for him – behaviour. Instead, his blogger was busying himself with grating a little bit of something onto the plates he'd filled. Undoubtedly, Angelo had been stern about the details making the recipe. Both Sherlock and he could appreciate the importance of small, apparently inconsequential things.

"So, when do I get my surprise?" John asked, handing him the food.

"Soon. I need to finalise some points, and of course, my experiment is going to eat up my time – that is if more cases don't come, which I frankly hope they do – so I'm not going to give you an exact time. But no peeking!" he replied.

"Hey, I'm not you!" his blogger protested, mock offended.

"No, you're not. So I'll know at once if you've been snooping. Believe me, you don't want to risk a retaliation," the detective countered. Mostly, Lead's retaliation. As sweet as she could be, if John was too chaotic in his search, there was a chance that she'd remind him to behave with her claws. _That_ would definitely mean starting on the wrong foot.

"You cannot seriously claim the moral high ground about snooping! Who are you, and what did you do with my 'you should have picked a password that isn't pathetically obvious to keep people out of your computer' flatmate? Wait, don't tell me! Are you…the good twin?" John quipped.

"Nothing so silly. I still maintain my opinions. I'm just warning you – your surprise _is_ protected. In fact, it's sort of tied to my experiment. I wouldn't investigate too deeply in your shoes," Sherlock said, between bites.

"If you were in my shoes, you would already have deduced what it is, when it'll be shown to you, and what prompted this bout of generosity. But point taken, you're not above using biological warfare to protect your plans. I'm pretty sure that's against the Geneva convention by the way. Just saying." Not that it would touch his flatmate, probably. Bloody Holmeses and their bloody superiority complexes…well, it's only a complex if it's not true.

The sleuth smiled, almost to himself. "True."


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. Thanks so much to the delightful guest HoneyBun, who reviewed (twice! ;D). I'm so glad you're enjoying it! In fact, I hope you all do. :D Also, deepest apologies, but – Nanowrimo bunny bit. Viciously. Actually, I suspect that bunny might eat Lead up (because plot bunnies are * so * omnivorous). Hence why I'll disappear next month. Honestly, it's more probable that I'll disappear till new year. But I promise that I'll keep researching for this fic in the meantime! (Ok, playing with my cat might not exactly count, but she is an awesome source of inspiration, so once the Muse lets me come back there should be no more troubles at all!)_

After the latest mishap, it was obvious that Sherlock needed a much more thorough education in the way of the cats (which sounded like an alternative term for a made-up martial art, frankly). Research on the web had the double downside of his clearly not being able to gauge the reliability of a source just yet, and the risk of heightening John's newfound suspiciousness of him. Either using John's computer and erasing its history, or uncharacteristically being careful to only use his own, could raise justified questions.

Thank God that the sleuth had a consultant of his own, more than willing to talk. Toby's glossy fur and arrogant behaviour, setting himself on Sherlock's knees the few times he'd visited the pathologist's abode as if he belonged there, spoke of a happy cat. She knew what she was doing in her rearing. And even if he claimed to have an experiment running, the detective did check on her often. After all, you could never know when one interesting organ would come along, and she couldn't exactly keep one back for him indefinitely.

This time, he was careful to ensure that Lead kept to her designated spaces when he left. And if he suggested that John might relax with some cat videos, to ensure that he would mistake the source of any sound…well, that was what friends did, wasn't it? He hadn't been the one making the other watch the same one twelve times.

"Tell me you have more photos!" Molly squeaked, when he entered the morgue. Oh damn. It was better for his eardrums when she stammered and could barely say one sentence that made sense, much less hold a conversation.

"Lead is exactly what I need help with – if you can avoid trying to hit an ultrasonic peak with your words while you explain, that is," he retorted.

Despite that probably not being how you should ask for favours, the pathologist was too fond of cats to allow one to suffer just because Sherlock was still as much of an arsehole as ever. "Tell me all. Every. Brilliant. Detail," she ordered, without stopping her current autopsy. She didn't think that there would be many surprises there anyway.

After he explained –interspersing his description with dozens of complaints about cats and their illogical behaviour, as his room had been turned into a perfect cat abode – Molly giggled. In fact, she had to stop working, to avoid accidentally making an uneven slash. Then, her giggles finally exploded into a full-blown cachinnation, until she was red-faced and breathless.

This was so out of character for her, that Sherlock was afraid he had broken her. John's "education" hadn't just contained Bond, but other random bits too. At the moment, the detective saw the point in the 'crazy cat lady' cliché. Obviously, cats didn't just negatively influence brain activity, they were downright ruinous.

After she managed to get herself under control, and take a few unsteady breaths that weren't impeded by laughter, Molly finally asked, "Do you really wonder why Lead wouldn't stay in your room all day?"

The detective simply glared at her. He wasn't in the habit of asking questions the answers to which he already knew, and they'd worked together often enough that she should know as much. Even if she'd lost her mind, couldn't she kindly avoid stating – or asking – the obvious?

"Sorry, sorry, it's just – it's so ridiculous." The pathologist seemed on the verge of another burst of laughter, and Sherlock was ready to leave if he couldn't obtain an answer. After all, he'd have extra research to do. But then she grinned and _finally_ explained, "I thought you'd empathise with her, that's all. She's a child, and being cooped up all day – she'd be terribly bored. Especially since she was an outside cat before."

"Bored?" he echoed. They'd played before she followed him. Surely, that should have tired her out? Only apparently it hadn't. What was he supposed to do? His bouts of boredom were remedied with experiments, cases, the violin…shooting…hanging around John, who seemed to have a calming effect on him. None of these seemed viable options for a kitten.

"Yep. As much as I love you for taking her in, kittens are basically hyperactive unless they're napping. They have so much to learn, and the quicker the better! While I am sure you can relate to that feeling, I don't want you to think this will be easy. Adorable, yes. Easy, no," Molly replied. She was finally stable enough to go back to her autopsy while she talked.

"Well, what am I supposed to do? I can't exactly play with her all day!" the sleuth huffed, throwing his arms in the air. He had other experiments! Cases! So many time consuming endeavours. Could he borrow the treadmill from Mycroft and put Lead on it? But how should he explain the new addition to John?

"All day and a good chunk of the night, too. You'll find that you're not the only one unwilling to turn up early, for once. As for what to do…couldn't John help?" she asked, taking a sample for further analysis.

"Never! John is not to know about Lead. Not for a while, at least. So, if you could kindly refrain from mentioning her to him –"

"Of course I will, but your while had better be short. Or John will discover her on his own. He's not stupid, you know. And there's an inevitable tell," Molly warned, taking her eyes off her work a second to impress on him how serious she was.

"Actually, she's pretty quiet. And I can always whip out a cat video in case he hears her. In fact, he's watching some right now, on my recommendation. So the meowing shouldn't be a problem. As if I would forget something that basic!" Sherlock scoffed.

"Well thought…pity that it's not what I was talking about. You could also blame strays outside in a pinch, if she got too vocal. There's another detail that will always expose a cat owner, or a house inhabited by a cat. In fact, I'm sure you use it all the time for your deductions. So why you would think that John isn't capable of the same basic inference is beyond me." She rolled her eyes.

The sleuth didn't ask. He just glared. If she wanted him to beg to know, she had another think coming.

Molly was unimpressed with him. After waiting a few minutes, even daring to ignore his scowl and go back to her job, she sighed and said, "The _hair_.You'll be covered in her hair soon enough…and so will your bed. Your armchair. John's armchair. The rug. Need I go on? Yes, vacuuming and a good lint roller will get rid of most. But somehow I think that your developing a sudden obsession with vacuuming might spook John more than discovering you have a cat would. Especially if he ever watched The Invasion of the Body Snatchers!"

She giggled. There was nothing to giggle over. Even if he managed to keep himself spotless (he suspected a lint roller would have to join the picklock kit and the magnifying glass he always carried) John couldn't help noticing if Lead's sneaking around – and shedding – meant that he'd start finding his own clothes 'decorated'. But Molly had a point. How could he remedy that when the most obvious solution would have alarmed John as uncharacteristic of him – especially when he was supposed to have a very pressing experiment in his bedroom? "Well, what am I supposed to do?" he – no, not whined. He most definitely never whined.

"Why are you asking me? Do you think I would ever try to hide Toby? He's the best thing in my life, no offense," she retorted. "You're a genius. You'll find a way." And if Lead meant that he'd start pulling his weight around the house, she might easily become John's second favourite person in the whole world. Her friend's worries were so ridiculous.

The sleuth glared at her, and so she hurried to add, "But I might have a suggestion if you're worried about her sneaking around. Give her an outlet. If she can leave sometimes, maybe chase a bird, or otherwise tire herself out, she'll be less likely to sneak around, and even hide in John's closet."

"Why John's closet?" he groaned.

"Sorry dear, but between your clothes and his jumpers – she might love your smell, but his makes for a much better nest," Molly replied.

"She's not a bird!" Sherlock protested.

"Never mind. I just hope that John is in the habit of closing his closet carefully. Keep me updated, will you? And when can Toby come visit her?"

"You're brilliant, Molls. I'll text you." Of course! Toby! He just needed to start having cats over. Any sign would then be easily explained away.

Molly was left staring at him, when he ran away like a man possessed. She shook her head. How could Sherlock make her feel like her mum sometimes?


	4. Chapter 4

This is not an update. This isn't even an apology, because I realise that no amount of apologies is going to change things or make you less angry. This is your authorization to come at me with pitchfork, virtual or otherwise. Because the problem is I've managed to one-up writer's block. I know writer's block. One story won't work, but this means I can write all the others. What I got is…writer's constipation, I guess. When one story is blocked, and yet it refuses to let your brain concentrate on anything else. At this point, I'm not making any promises. Just weeping in a corner.


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: Obviously, anything you recognise is still not mine. A. N. If you were planning to hire Moran to deal with me (and I wouldn't blame you, I was about to do so myself) you can save your money. I'm back to life! And—fingers dutifully crossed—here to stay. The constipating plot ended being such a mess I won't show you for now to avoid further pitchforks, but I can finally breathe. And write (just a little, sorry about that). And purr. :D Also…I had no idea the plot would take this turn. The boys keep surprising me!_

"I might need a consult on my current experiment," Sherlock announced over tea.

"Sure," John agreed, rising from his chair, toast still in hand.

"Not yours!" The tone was harsher than his flatmate deserved, but alarm bells blared deafeningly in Sherlock's mind palace. A breath, and he added, "Molly's. I'll have her over."

The flash of hurt in John's eyes was blatant. Still, he joked, "Got a whole dead body there? You do know I'm a doctor too, don't you? You didn't delete that?"

"Yes, of course, but I'd still prefer her competence on this one". The detective shrugged.

John's head tilted right—an unconscious sign he was engaging the left, logical half of his brain—and his keen stare made Sherlock frown. What if he was deduced? That'd ruin everything.

Luckily for him, the doctor, while clever in his own right, consistently misunderstood any clues he was faced with. John sat back down and sighed. "An experiment. In your bedroom. With Molly. Sure. I mean, I'm happy for her, I guess. Experiment better be a code, though—I should have expected that from you, really. She doesn't deserve to be used. I know feelings aren't your strong suit, but not even you can have missed how she feels." The next bite into his toast felt oddly forceful.

Was this a bad day? It had seemed a normal day before. Maybe he should put aside his cat visit plan and find them a nice case. One where John could tackle someone. Possibly a Pavlovian association with his rugby days at uni, but that always seemed to cheer his blogger right up. "I can assure you, Molly will be happy to help." She had no reason to fake the amount of gushing he'd had to suffer since adopting Lead. "I'm just mentioning it because she said she'll bring Toby along. He's usually a well-behaved cat, but…"

"He's a cat." John finished for him. "He's not ill, is he? If he's her priority right now, maybe you should reschedule."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock huffed. "He's perfectly healthy. Just spoiled and, apparently, going through a possessive phase." Cats did that, didn't they?

A moment, and John chuckled. "Sorry, I was about to say his yowling might cause a disturbance…but I clearly wasn't thinking. The neighbours will probably consider it a nice change."

"You have no objections, then?"

"What, to someone likely to shred my best jumpers being in the house? I would have moved out a long time ago in that case."

This time, the detective joined his laugh. John had a point! Which boded well for Lead's introduction. Still, he'd rather go along with his plan.

"Try not to destroy too much of the house…either of you. If only because Molly would feel guilty about it. I'll pop to the bathroom and then get to work," his blogger said.

"Have fun," Sherlock deadpanned. As if that was possible. If they were lucky, Lestrade would call and he'd extract John from his office. Why he insisted on wasting his talents diagnosing colds, the consulting detective would never know. With the proper diagnosis Mycroft and he offered, John could have gone back to being a surgeon at least. After all, his hands never shook when it mattered.

John hadn't been gone long, when Molly rang the bell. As soon as he let her in, she freed Toby, her tabby and white bicolour tomcat, from his carrier. And then the concert began. The deep, prolonged screams surprised the sleuth. Could they really come from his usually quiet and all-over tiny cat?

"Uh-oh...you didn't run the playdate idea by Lead, did you?" Molly said. More evidence that cat ownership fried people's brain. What was he supposed to do? Get her written consent? Toby's reaction was more sensible than that. The cat actually went back into his carrier...and he looked as if he would have shut its door too if he had opposable thumbs. The pathologist graciously did that for him. "Well, she's only going to become more upset if you keep her trapped. Open the door."

Sherlock did, and a ruffled, grey blur shot inside. She sized up the guest – only later looking at the humans present. Toby was crouched low, ears drawn back. To the detective – and his vague memories of aunt Briar's cat, who wouldn't stand to be disturbed when not in the mood – he looked angry. Despite that, Lead soon quieted down.

"He's being submissive," Molly remarked. "I'll try opening the cage again in a while, but maybe for now we can all have a seat and relax?"

The detective shrugged. He wasn't the expert, for once. When he complied, Lead immediately jumped on his lap and started to purr. "What's up with the mood swings?" he complained.

Molly smiled. "You'll have to educate her a bit, that's all. She was a stray. Stupid me not thinking that she'd see other cats as competition. She's just making the point that you're hers and Toby can't steal you. Actually, she reminds me of someone I know."

"Oh please, spare me the talk about your girl friends' woeful love life. I already hear more than I'd like about John's."

Her smile only widened. "Sure. Do you think I can pet her?"

"Suit yourself."

Molly came closer, crouched at the armchair's side, and offered her hand for Lead to sniff. A whiff, and she batted it away, claws out...or tried to, as Molly was too swift for her to scratch. "We need to have a talk about this attitude of yours, missy," the pathologist announced, mock seriously. "You'll have to learn to get along with other people some day soon. John is going to want to cuddle you too, you know?"

"Do you think she would attack him? She's never done that." Sherlock frowned. Lead curled up further, the picture of harmlessness.

"Well..." the pathologist hesitated. "John's smell is all over the flat, and I bet all over you, too, so he probably gets a pass. Unless he ignores her moods."

"What do you mean, all over me? Molly Hooper, you know we're not –" Sherlock didn't squeak. Of course not. Still, he was interrupted by Molly's giggles.

She half-fell back in her chair. "I wasn't insinuating that you were, yet. But you're flatmates and completely lack boundaries. If I rooted in your pockets or...you know, I'm not sure that John doesn't handfeed you when you're distracted. You do look less bony since the two of you moved in together."

"Nonsense."

"You do. I'm good at estimating bodies at a glance, I'll have you know. Your change is a good thing, mind. Anyway, if I casually touched you half as much as John does, my smell would be all over you, too. And perhaps Lead wouldn't be so anxious right now." She picked up the carrier, put it on her knees, and unlatched it. Slowly, Toby emerged, immediately starting to knead against her jumper.

Lead meowled loudly. Sherlock caught her by the scruff of her neck before she could even think of doing anything else. "If we want to persuade John to let you stay, you need to be well behaved. They're not. A. Threat." He laid her back on his lap, but she jumped down. He watched her take a large tour around the guests. Finally, she circled back, and sat in front of Molly.

"Hello, you," the pathologist cooed.

Sherlock rose and went to put the kettle on. It seemed the day would be long, and there was only so much gushing he could take.


End file.
